


You Think I Ain't Worth a Dollar, But I Feel Like a Millionaire

by iloveyoudie



Series: Morseverse Prompt Fills [15]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Homophobic Language, Locker Room, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, not actually shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: He generally only used the station locker room in an emergency but his lunch had ended up on his shirt today, a bit of tomato and cheese, and it wouldn’t do to be walking around with a stain. Not these days. Not when the place felt more like the mocking halls of a primary school than it did a beacon of the community.





	You Think I Ain't Worth a Dollar, But I Feel Like a Millionaire

**Author's Note:**

> For a kissing meme - Morse/Box - out of spite.  
> I'm not sure if spite is what happens here but here's the fic anyway.

Morse had always hated the locker rooms at the station but he hated the communal washrooms at the section house more. It was like a fraternity in which he was an unwilling guest, full of rowdy young constables who were too loud and too friendly and too invasive for Morse to be comfortable. He generally only used the station locker room in an emergency but more and more lately he'd been venturing into them to avoid those at his digs, and today his lunch had ended up on his shirt, a bit of tomato and cheese, and it wouldn’t do to be walking around with a stain. Not these days. Not when the place felt more like the mocking halls of a primary school than it did a beacon of the community.

There was likely some sort of trauma ingrained in him from his school years. He’d always been a twiggy thing without an ounce of interest in fitness. He’d been no good at sports and had no attention span for the running back and forth and overly complicated rules. This made him an easy target for the bigger boys or stronger boys or just those he’d already put himself at odds with through class, when he likely said something to make them feel stupid. So they’d say things too. Things about his mother. Things about his father.

Queer things about him.

Castle Gate felt, unsurprisingly, very much the same. So Morse wasn’t entirely surprised to find that as soon as he’d stripped down to his vest and fished a replacement shirt from his locker, that a chain of boisterous laughter came from the direction of the showers and a small group of men, all shirtless and damp and wrapped in towels, emerged into the common space. Morse kept his eyes on his locker, knowing well that acknowledgement invited commentary, but wasn’t lucky enough to remain incognito when DCI Box’s voice piped up above the din.

“If it ain’t Sergeant Clever Bastard-”

Morse glanced up, a flick of the eyes only, to find Box with wet hair and a damp broad chest covered in dark hair. He was more muscled than Morse was comfortable with in close quarters and his towel was barely being held on by the hand working to tuck it in on itself at his hip. The other coppers with him were nothing to even glance at, round and squat donut gobblers and skinny weasel chain smokers that filled out his posse’s ranks when Jago and Thursday were busy. Morse wondered if he kept them around on purpose, for contrast, just to make himself look more impressive.

“Sir,” Morse was polite as he could be murmuring into his own chest, and he turned back to his locker as he pulled his spare shirt on.

 _“Sir,”_ An unknown voice from the back of the group mocked while a few of them chuckled.

Box raised a wrist and his silver bracelet caught the light as the posse went quiet. There was a matching chain around his neck, settled against his bronze skin and chest hair with an obnoxious contrasting shine. He stepped closer, too close for Morse’s taste, and leaned against the locker beside him. He was enviably casual, confident, nearly naked and unashamed.

He was a peacock.

Morse hated him.

“You done well with that last case. I didn’t think much of ya when we met back at Cowley but-” Box shrugged one toned shoulder. It shifted the muscles along his neck, the tendons standing out just enough with the angle of his head to be obvious, “Maybe that mustache’a yours did you a favor, eh?” He laughed, “A little wisdom in your old age?”

Morse gritted his teeth.

“Wonder if it tickles when he gives a kiss?” Another voice came from the group.

“You’d better ask your girlfriend, Campbell,” Morse recognized the sound of him and shot him an icy glare, “if she likes it on me.”

Campbell was a dumpy looking man who flushed red and shifted aggressively until one of his cohorts put an arm up to hold him.

Box only seemed amused, “What are they calling it now?” Box grinned and tapped Morse on the arm with one of his hands as if they were friends, “Mustache rides, eh, Morse?”

Morse’s skin crawled at the touch and his control snapped much more swiftly than he would have liked. He spun to face Box and drew himself up to his full height and Box, seeing the change, did too. They squared off, Morse several inches shorter but not quite the twig he’d been in the locker rooms as a child. He wasn’t a man of violence but words wouldn’t necessarily get him out of this one. Box stared down at him with a hard lined jaw and a challenging bearing. It was like the weigh-in at a boxing match and Morse knew that not a single soul in the bunch would put money on him.

The posturing got a few of the cops rowdy, Campbell among them, and there was muttering and shifting before Morse heard a murmur of _‘s’a fecking poofter - wonder if the tache would tickle wrapped around yer cock, Ronnie.’_

And something flashed in Morse’s eyes, anger and humiliation, and something else went through Box’s expression, something a bit like alarm, because Morse had gritted his teeth and begun to surge forward. Box, calm as all get out, pressed a big hand to Morse’s chest and stopped him. Easy as that, with little to no effort, like a steel beam he held Morse at bay.

“Now, now,” Box spoke up, loud, and turned his head to his crew, “No need to get crude lads. Morse here solved himself a murder this week. Let’s leave him to his business.”

Morse was flabbergasted and Box’s palm felt like a hot brand burning through the fabric of his shirt. There was a force behind that palm that he could not counter, and in his presence as well, as the group of men began to murmur in disappointment to themselves. There was a ripple through the group, like they’d been let down, and Morse finally sagged and took a step back.

Box, watched them, watched his audience’s disappointment, and then like a flash, pushed Morse against the locker and kissed him. It was fast, a shove - a rattling thump - and lips on his own. There was a slip of tongue, invasive and cruel, a tease that no one would see but Morse would always know and feel, a violation of his body, and then Box was laughing and pushing away from him.

He whipped his towel off like it was all a grand show and spun for his own locker at the end of the row with a barking laugh, “Whattya know lads, it does tickle!”

Box had regained his audience, his boys laughing ugly and loud from their places around the locker room, but Morse - Morse had very definitely lost something.

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely out of my range of usual things and it's not exactly my ship but I think we all want to, at the very least, read about Box with no clothes on.
> 
> I know it's not even really 'shippy' but I can't quite get my mind around that bit... so angry men in a locker room it is.
> 
> The name is a song from [Queens of the Stone Age](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mS8LvHT_zcQ).


End file.
